


Shall I Compare Thee To...

by kiaronna



Series: YOI One-Shots [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Comedy, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Katsuki Yuuri, but not really jealousy??? Viktor is??? having feelings and confusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 05:03:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13674795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiaronna/pseuds/kiaronna
Summary: When suggestive love letters addressed to Mister Katsuki-Nikiforov begin arriving at their apartment, Viktor must struggle through:1. convincing Yuuri that, yes, it's definitely an admirer set on stealing him away from Viktor's loving arms and2. discovering the identity of this dastardly villain





	Shall I Compare Thee To...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maracate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maracate/gifts).



> Please suspend your disbelief for the sake of my amusement.  
> HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY

The love letter arrives on a Tuesday afternoon.

Viktor finds out about it as soon as he gets home from practice, because Yuuri does that unsubtle, lovingly impatient routine where he yanks off Viktor’s coat, corrals him to the couch, and aggressively cuddles him.

“You’re so sweet,” Yuuri says, right into Viktor’s pectoral. Viktor is not _quite_ self-absorbed enough to think this declaration is the result of him walking through the door and taking off his shoes.

“Thank you,” he replies easily, “and what did I do?”

Yuuri pops his head up. “Don’t be sly, Viktor. You’re bad at it. You always get so excited—“ a pause, brown eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “…you actually don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Viktor hums his assent. “But don’t let that stop you from continuing to praise me!” Cruelly, Yuuri rolls off the couch. “I’m cold,” Viktor says immediately, “and _alone_.”

“Hush,” says Yuuri a few beats later, dropping back down onto the cushion beside him and waving a waxy pink piece of paper, “read this. Tell me you didn’t write it.”

Viktor stares at the Cyrillic, and cannot believe his eyes.

_Dear Mister Katsuki-Nikiforov,_

_I see you every day when you go out for a walk. You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, in the whole world. I’d like to get to know you better._

_Maybe we can play with each other sometime… if you’re not kept on too tight of a leash._

_< 3 <3 ;) _

The note is scrawled on a pink paper valentine. There is a little poodle, with heart eyes, scrawled in the corner. Poodles are _Viktor’s thing._

Poodles should be everyone’s thing, and usually Viktor strongly believes in that. But not this time. Not like this.

Because _Yuuri_ is Viktor’s husband, and while Viktor can’t fault anyone for looking, the fact that someone would slip a scandalous love letter right into the mailbox _they share_ …

Viktor is not a jealous man. He knew that dating and becoming engaged to and marrying Yuuri was going to involve watching Yuuri be flirted with by a lot of attractive men and women. Viktor even liked the idea of it; beautiful creatures attracted other beautiful creatures and a lot of attention. Yuuri was like a painting brought to life, emotion in every brushstroke of him and the charcoal sweep of his hair and eyes. Of course he would be fawned over. This was a fact of the universe, an intractable truth, a—

Yuuri is still a bit of an ugly crier, if only because he always tries to scrunch his face up and stop the tears from rolling. He’s not crying now, but his mouth tightens into a grim line.

“In our _mailbox_ ,” he huffs. “ _Our_ mailbox. If someone wanted to proposition you, I guess it’s better they do it to both our faces, but—“

“Me?” Viktor splutters. “Proposition me?”

Yuuri levels him with a look. “How many confessions do you have in your fanmail, Viktor?”

Viktor stopped counting when he was seventeen. Honestly, he probably never started counting.

“This letter is directed at you,” Viktor firmly asserts.

“Why would someone, besides you, write me a love letter,” Yuuri scoffs right back. Viktor is not sure whether to be offended for Yuuri, by Yuuri, or on behalf of the thousands of broken hearts left in the wake of Japan’s Ace.

Instead of going into a long-winded explanation of why Yuuri is the modern version of Helen of Troy, Viktor just says, “I guess we’ll never really know who it was for. Unless you want to respond to this admirer?”

Yuuri stares down at the letter, clearly a little torn. Viktor is struck by the sudden, ferocious memory of a handsome ice dancer asking how Yuuri felt about a round of horizontal tango.

“ _There’s so much I could… teach you.”_ Yuuri’s head had ticked to the side, clearly gliding right past every reality where, yes, the man was flirting with him… only to end up in the false reality where this poor soul was challenging his dancer’s pride, and where _horizontal tango_ was a Western dance abomination.

_“Maybe you should improve your vertical tango first?”_

The bravest, truest hearts have been savagely laid to rest by Katsuki Yuuri. He is _not_ —Viktor repeats, _not_ —going to show mercy to the one admirer that’s managed to invade their home.

“It just feels,” Yuuri begins, and then strangles his own words. He looks like he wants to stuff the paper heart in his mouth. “It feels like something I would have written to you, when I was younger. It just seems so... genuine. I'll deal with it in a minute.”

He sets the valentine down on their coffee table.

Pettily, Viktor debates buying a new coffee table. He hasn’t wanted to burn anything this much since he first caught a glimpse of 23-year-old Yuuri’s ties.

Makkachin plucks the valentine up, begins to trot away with it, but Viktor coaxes it from his mouth.

“Not for you, puppy,” he says sweetly. “You don’t know where that’s been.” Yuuri tries and fails to cover up his laugh.

By the time they’ve cuddled back up on the couch, Makkachin rolling between their laps, Viktor’s irritation is long gone.

It’s just a silly piece of paper. An inconsiderate proposition that will never be accepted. Yuuri is in love with _him_ , irrevocably. Viktor has a ring and a shared apartment and five fresh hickies to prove it. There’s no use in worrying—no use devoting any thought to it at all.

So Viktor doesn’t.

At least, until the second letter is slipped under their door.

* * *

 

_Dear Mister Katsuki-Nikiforov,_

_I hope my first letter didn’t get lost. I thought I might be able to share your time. I saw you in your pink convertible the other day._

_I’d love to take you for a ride._

There’s a starry-eyed poodle cartoon in the corner, _again_.

“Tacky,” Viktor whispers to himself, but Yuuri seals his lips shut with one of Viktor’s custom-ordered poodle stickers.

(They have three sheets of them. Viktor ordered them specifically to “reward” Yurio with, and he and Yuuri take turns sneaking them onto Yurio’s jacket).

 “I guess,” Yuuri muses, “it could be my admirer?”

“I never had a doubt,” Viktor says sagely. Maybe he can tell the postman they moved. Maybe he can buy Yuuri another wedding ring—a bigger one. With a diamond like a neon sign in a store window: _CLOSED FOR BUSINESS_. _DO NOT SEDUCE. ALREADY HAS A HUSBAND WHO CAN NEVER LOVE ANOTHER. YOU WILL BE KILLING AN INNOCENT MAN._

The judges will give Yuuri extra points, for spinning with the additional weight.

Viktor settles for five worshipful tweets about his marriage, and hanging on Yuuri every time they exit their house. He really, really hopes that Yuuri’s admirer will take the hint.

* * *

 

The letters increase in frequency.

 _I want you to lick me_ , one declares, and this is where Viktor puts his foot down. He dons his most intimidating v-neck, prepares pirozhki, and waits for the mailman’s arrival.

The mailman eats the pirozhki, even if he does look a bit confused.

“Who,” Viktor says, leaning forward and nudging the ever-growing pile of hearts into his hands, “is sending us these letters?” He smiles, sharp as his blades. “I’ll know if you lie.”

“ _I’m_ not delivering them.” He shrugs. “They must be just leaving them at your door?”

Viktor leaves his dignity at the door, and spends half the afternoon standing on the street outside his apartment complex with Makkachin.

While Makkachin debates which stick is the Best Stick Ever, Viktor stares intently at his building.

There goes the sweet older lady from upstairs, the one who owns half of Sochi. There go the lesbian couple of hockey players from the third floor, the ginger tabby from the rooftop. Little Sasha and her mother, groceries in their arms, Sasha tempting Makkachin into winding about her knees with an apple slice.

There is no sexy, mysterious figure. There is no evil interloper, challenging Viktor to a skate-off for his husband’s hand (Viktor has never daydreamed about doing a skate-off for Yuuri’s hand, at least not while awake).

Everything is calm. Perfectly ordinary.

When Viktor, temporarily at peace, returns back to his home, the flamingo pink corner of another letter sticks out from the bottom of their door.

_I could give you a massage. Take good care of you any time you're alone…_

“This can’t be real,” Yuuri says, which Viktor interrupts with a toneless, visceral,

“Yes it _can_.”

He can’t believe he was foolish enough to think that, even after marriage, people would stop doggedly pursuing his husband. People would kill for that smile, that grace, those thighs. Viktor included.

“I’m calling Phichit,” Yuuri says, probably because Phichit was the one who instructed Yuuri on how to deal with admirers in the pre-Viktor days.

Phichit’s valuable advice is that they set up a camera.

“It’ll be just like a reality TV show!”

Then all they’re left to do is wait.

* * *

 

They didn’t actually need the camera.

Viktor and Yuuri come home from Thursday date night, Makkachin bouncing between them, and catch someone in the act.

“Hello,” says little Sasha, who has lived below Viktor for about two months. Viktor remembers, not because his memory for faces and names and details has improved, but because he demarcates time with important Yuuri Events. When Sasha moved in, Yuuri helped them carry boxes. It was a delightful show for Viktor, who was helping to organize their décor while he swooned over his husband’s triceps.

“Hello,” Viktor replies automatically. Then, he spots it:

A letter. That choking, blinding pink, stuffed into her tiny pale fist.

 _“Who asked you to put that there_.”

Yuuri’s inconsiderate admirer is more dastardly than he thought, using a child for his plot.

Sasha blinks. Looks at the paper in her hand. Viktor holds his breath.

“Oh,” she says, bending and sliding the letter beneath their door. “This is for Mister Katsuki-Nikiforov.”

“ _Which_ Mister Katsuki-Nikiforov,” Yuuri interrupts, unnecessarily. Her hand swings out, finger pointing. Viktor feels a surge of satisfaction, when it lands on his beloved husband. Even if that satisfaction is accompanied by growing dread—wait.

She’s pointing at Yuuri’s knee.

He and Yuuri both look down. Makkachin happily pants back up at them.

“Oh,” Yuuri says. In a perfect rhythm that would earn them Olympic gold medals in synchronized swimming or diving, rather than figure skating, they both go crimson.

Viktor and Yuuri have a potty song for Makkachin, when they take him to the strip of grass beside their building. It goes like this:

_The littlest Mister Katsuki-Nikiforov! He has to go, go, go. He is, the best boy! He is, the sweetest boy! He is, the smartest boy! The littlest Mister Katsuki-Nikiforov._

Oh, he is  _hopeless_.

“Have you,” Viktor whispers, “been trying to leave notes for our dog?”

Sasha beams. She has a tooth missing. “Yes! Mama said you probably weren’t getting them, because you weren’t responding. So I kept leaving them.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” is all Viktor can say. Yuuri is still staring, frazzled and blank-eyed, upwards.

“Tell me I’m misunderstanding,” Yuuri says in English, “tell me that I’m translating this Russian the wrong way.”

He’s not.

“So what do you think?” She waves the pink heart. Viktor never, ever wants to see one of those again. “Can I play with him sometimes? I really, really like him. I promise I’ll treat him super good. Rides on my bike! Massages and petting!”

Sasha has single-handedly disrupted the Katsuki-Nikiforov household more than any hot movie star, competitor, or ex-lover.

“Sasha,” says Viktor, “you can do whatever you like.”

For the first time in days, he is going to have some peace of mind.

“I knew it,” Yuuri declares, “I _knew_ it. All those times you insisted people were trying to hit on me on the streets and in parks? At our home rink?” He beams, proud. “It all makes sense now! They were just trying to get to _Makkachin_.”

Viktor Katsuki-Nikiforov is never going to have any peace, none at all.

**Author's Note:**

> I gift this work to maracate, but I'm not sure this really fulfills all the checkboxes for "Oblivious Heartbreaker Katsuki Yuuri"?? So we will consider this a placeholder until I finish your actual giftfic. SORRY THANK YOU  
> In other news, I have a [ Tumblr ](https://kiaronna.tumblr.com/) where you will see work of equally questionable quality


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